The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) (19 page)

Instead he had to lure this particular foe within range of his lower deck guns during daylight; something that would call for particular cunning and not a little risk. And no small part of the plan would include effectively ignoring his main guns until the time came when a full broadside, one that must ultimately reveal
Prometheus'
true identity, could settle the matter permanently. Before then he must rely on his secondary armament: the carronades and maybe a few eighteen-pounders that would give him only a limited advantage over what was bound to prove a faster and more agile opponent.

Even in daylight,
Prometheus
was liable to take damage and men could be injured. Some might die: the likelihood was strong, in fact. Such a sacrifice would be justified if the Frenchman were eventually taken, but what if he were unsuccessful? What if this turned out to be a long drawn out action, one with an extended butcher's bill to match, but ultimately doomed to end with the privateer smoking his ruse? He supposed the waste of men's lives might not be taken so very seriously by some, but already knew such a failure would haunt him for the rest of his days. And time was not on his side: he really could not afford to continue the action after darkness – that might spell disaster.

––––––––

O
n the lower gun deck, two hundred or so men and boys stood ready to serve
Prometheus'
main armament. The ship had beaten to quarters some while back, and now most of Flint's team, which included several from his own mess, were at their starboard piece. But none were comfortable, and neither did they seem particularly happy.

There was less room than usual. In a ship where no deck was longer than a hundred and seventy feet, all were used to living crowded lives and such an inconvenience was accepted when unavoidable. But that was not currently the case, as every piece in
Prometheus
' main armament was still, annoyingly, inboard.

Normally the great guns would have been run out by now, leaving a far larger area for those who were to serve them. That was not the extent of their problems however: the cannon being inboard meant all ports remained closed, so the men crowded within were also denied light and fresh air, as well as news of the action.

The ship had been manoeuvring for several hours, with no heading held long enough to be considered a change of course. It was clear that intricate games were being played above; games they were not privy to, and their annoyance grew with each heave of the deck. The captain might have grounds for such unconventional behaviour: it might be a ploy – a tactic that would see the British ultimately successful – that, or the lower deck had simply slipped his mind. But whatever the reason,
Prometheus'
lower ports remained securely shuttered, and the near solid mass of humanity within was left cramped, panting, and very much in the dark.

As if to emphasise their situation, the deep rumble of long guns being run out on the deck above had been heard some time ago. Since then, all below had been imagining men of the upper battery stretched out in more spacious surroundings as they relaxed in the cooling afternoon breeze and casually regarded the enemy. Meanwhile the more important weapons, and a thirty-two pounder must surely be regarded so, sat loaded, primed and otherwise prepared for use, with their servers apparently forgotten.

A call came from above, and was soon repeated by Davison, the second lieutenant, who stood by the main companionway further aft and was in overall charge of
Prometheus'
lower deck armament.

“Target will be for'ard and high!” Chivers, one of the midshipmen, took up the order, his voice high with youth and excitement.

Forward and high – at least that spoke of action, although even then the men were not placated. Every long gun in a Royal Navy warship was kept loaded whilst at sea, but the servers on the lower deck had already been instructed to draw the standard single round shot from the weapons under their care. It had been a lengthy and awkward business, made no easier by having the ports closed, and one that enhanced their feelings of injustice as the chance of a deadly spark was very real. But both batteries were now reloaded with bar shot: and the order, however much it might have been expected, did not go down well, and lowered morale still further.

It meant they would be aiming at top-hamper – a Frenchman's trick which did not find favour with British gunners. Besides any irrational prejudice against aiming anywhere other than their opponent's hull – their usual practice, and something they considered more manly – no fine degree of accuracy would be possible. Each gun captain was suitably proud of his craft, but there could be little skill when using such ill-shaped projectiles as bar shot. They would simply have to train their pieces in the general direction of the enemy’s masts and trust the murderous linked balls to do their mischief. Bar shot was undoubtedly effective, but the result somehow lacked the satisfaction of a well aimed broadside of round.

“So we knows roughly where,” Flint grumbled as the ship gave yet another heave in response to a savage turn. “And at what... Any danger of finding out
when
we're to fire, Mr Chivers?”

“All in good time,” the midshipman replied, recalling a phrase used against him a dozen times since joining the ship. “Until then, keep them ports shut. Captain wants the Frogs to think we're an Indiaman, and you wouldn't get no Company ship sailing with a lower deck stuffed full of thirty-twos.”

“If he wants them to think we're an Indiaman, why don't he just pay us John Company wages?” an anonymous voice enquired, to a rumble of appreciative laughter.

“The last Indiaman I was in carried guns a plenty,” Thompson, who was a designated loader on Flint's team, mused. “Only they called them cannonades. Ruddy great blown out things they was; something like a cross between a smasher and a proper gun, with all the disfavours of both.”

“Aye, no good for nothing, they're not,” another ultimately agreed. “All wind and noise but no result – bit like Thombo after too much burgoo.”

“Most were stowed in the hold,” Thompson continued, riding the laughter. “Took us a couple of hours to rig 'em if we thought pirates was about, and then it were anyone's guess where the shot would go.”

“Well these are Navy guns,” Chivers replied with more confidence than he currently felt. “And are going to come as quite a surprise if what we've raised turns out to be a Frenchman.”

“Frenchman or Irishman?” It was Cranston's turn to grizzle. “All them prize crew seem to be Paddies.”

“Makes no difference to me – or Sweet Sue here,” Thompson said, patting the cascabel of his weapon affectionately. “If they turn out enemies of the king, she'll deal with either, sure as a gun.” The man's sour expression suddenly cleared. “Sure as a gun!” he repeated with obvious glee having never heard the joke before, while those about him rolled their eyes or grimaced indulgently.

Another call was heard, this time more tense and urgent, and all conversation immediately ceased.

“Stand by there,” Lieutenant Benson, who was second in command of the main battery, ordered. “The enemy's on the move.”

Once more there was silence, then a low creak told how
Prometheus
was also altering course.

“Steady, lads,” Flint spoke softly to his team. The waiting had already gone on for several hours, which was far too long. He was starting to feel the well remembered tension of action and knew some of his men were not as seasoned as him. And even he had been tested beyond his limit in the past; it was several years back, and there were circumstances that had grown more mitigating with time, but still he remembered the raw terror, and knew how easily it might return.

They were only facing what amounted to a frigate, but a well placed twelve or eighteen pound ball might still punch through a third rate's bulwarks, and shot or splinters from an inferior enemy could be every bit as deadly as that fired by a three-decker. “We'll be in action soon enough,” Flint continued, more to himself than anyone else. “An', when it starts, all will feel a darn sight easier.”

Some of the men picked up on his words, and there was the flash of grins as the mood began to change. A few even began to joke amongst themselves when the tension lessened further. Then the singing began.

It came, slowly at first, and apparently from the very depths of the ship herself, making every officer present, from lieutenant down to quarter gunner, look to each other in concern. None on the lower gun deck were responsible, and the ship's medical team, who had laid out their wares and would be waiting for their first customer on the orlop below, were not known for hosting mess nights. The passengers, and any other supercargo, were gathered aft, but the sound came from further forward. And it was men's voices, singing a song that some on the lower deck might have heard before, but few had ever sung.

“It's the bloody croppies,” Thompson called out both in revelation and anger. “Them what we saved from the wrecked Indiaman, an' turned out to be traitors.”

The song continued, muffled slightly by the four inches of gun deck planking, but still loud enough for all to hear. They may be captured and secure, but it was the sound of their enemies, defiant even in defeat, and the very presence of it was disquieting to men about to go into battle.

* * *

“I
've a request from Jemmy Ducks, sir.” Caulfield told Banks with a hint of awkwardness.

“Indeed?” Banks was mildly surprised. Jemmy Ducks was the traditional name given to anyone who looked after a ship's poultry and, to his mind,
Prometheus'
particular holder of the title was not the brightest of sparks. He did possess an instinctive talent for the creatures under his care however and, considering the very real concession Banks had already made on his behalf, it was surprising that he should have been bothering the first lieutenant.

“I gather the livestock hands are looking to him as a spokesman,” Caulfield continued, aware, as was his captain, of how close to mutiny this sounded. “They appreciate their charges have been spared, but wonder why the animals might not be fed or watered. Ducks says none can survive for long and will start to complain shortly.”

Banks sighed. In saving the livestock he was contravening the normal practice of despatching live animals when a ship prepared for battle. So soon into the voyage,
Prometheus
was filled with beasts of every description; too many to be easily butchered and simply jettisoning them over the side would have upset both passengers and the sentimental element on the lower decks. To compromise, Banks had reasoned they might even be of use, hence his depriving them of provisions. The mystery ship was still some distance off but, if anything would convince an enemy they were an Indiaman, it must surely be the sound of mooing cattle, clucking hens and grunting pigs.

“Tell him it is better for them to starve for a day than the alternative,” Banks said harshly, before dismissing the subject and concentrating instead on the vessel off their starboard bow.

* * *

“W
hy can't you keep your people quiet?” Judy asked impatiently.

“They do no harm,” Carroll replied. “No man is trying to escape, nor physically interfering with the action in any way. And there are enough of your soldier boys on hand to see they do not, if any have a change of mind.”

“They don't need to make such a row, though,” the girl maintained, adding a sniff for good measure.

“Ah, yes,” Carroll smiled beguilingly. “But then we come from a musical nation; singing is natural to my countrymen, as well as being a basic human right. Sure, I could not stop them from doing so no more than I could their breathing.”

“It's upsetting the children,” Judy sulked. Indeed, of the ten she was attempting to care for, all but three were in tears, although it was doubtful if a group of men singing rebel songs at the other end of the ship was actually the cause.

“If that is the case, then I am truly sorry,” Carroll flashed his dark eyes dangerously. “Shall I help you keep them amused? I might show them a trick or two. Would they care to see me break my arm?”

“Break your arm?” The girl was less certain now; it was an extraordinary thing to say, yet the man's presence was powerful and oddly hypnotic. “Why should anyone wish to see that?” she added weakly.

“It usually attracts attention,” the Irishman responded modestly, before bending forward, and seeming to draw the youngsters towards him. “It's a very weak arm I have,” he told them confidentially. “And takes nothing at all to make it... Snap!”

Now all in the crowded space were captivated; even the two uniformed marines who stood guard rested back on their muskets to watch.

“Just a simple tap in the right place,” Carroll continued softly, chopping at his upper right arm with a flattened palm. “And it crumbles...”

He then grasped the hand with his left, and appeared to tug the limb free. The arm slid several inches out of the loose sleeve to gasps from the children. It was a simple enough trick, but done well, and certainly caught the youngsters' imaginations, all of whom were now quiet in fascination. Some of the adults laughed, and even Judy unbent enough to smile.

“Aye, but I have plenty more fobs if you're interested,” Carroll beamed good naturedly as he waved the restored limb to reassure any that might have been in doubt. “Would you care to see me make myself disappear?”

Now the children were firmly entranced. The looks of wonder and anticipation were soon replaced with confusion though, as all the funny man did was count to three, then place his hands in front of his face.

“I'm gone, and none of you can see me,” his words were muffled and both eyes remained firmly covered. “And now I'm back,” he continued, revealing that fetching look once more. “And you'll all be wondering how I did it.”

There were calls of complaint, then some of the youngsters laughed out loud, and even a few of the adults grew cross before finally seeing the joke. But Carroll had won them over: no one could hear the singing any more and neither was there any crying.